


Fourteen Years and a Second Time Around

by RakishAngle (afterdinnerminx)



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, New Guinea Huts, WW2, Yearning, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7985053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterdinnerminx/pseuds/RakishAngle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WW2. It's Jack's birthday and Phryne is stationed in the Pacific Theatre thinking of him, wherever he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourteen Years and a Second Time Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Whilenotwriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whilenotwriting/gifts).



Fourteen years ago today, the day was very different.  
As was she.  
As was, in fact, the rest of the world.  
Fourteen years ago this evening, she poured smooth amber liquid into one glass and then another, handing the first to a man she was just beginning to know, though not nearly ready to trust. But, why should a small matter of trust be necessary to toast the coming of another year?  
For his birthday, it was just the two of them.  
For her birthday, the parlor was full.  
They were together for both. Same for the following year, and same again for the next twelve after that. This was the first time in fourteen years she didn’t hand him a glass. Though, that wouldn’t stop her from raising a glass in his honor.  
“Happy Birthday, Jack. Wherever you are.” She brought the steel cup to her lips, and sucked the whiskey through her teeth. This brand burned more than hers. Yet, it was the best available. And that, she promised, is always what he would get if she had any say in the matter.  
Phryne pulled out Dot’s letter once again. She unfolded the thin parchment, read it for the tenth time, and marveled at her partner’s special powers of cryptography. Mrs. Dot Collins was enlisted, after a word was dropped into an ear or three, to support FRUMEL and, more specifically, to be stationed at the Park Orchards Intercept Station in Melbourne. As such, Phryne would receive personal letters with more strategic ones enclosed. The message with this letter that was intended for General Sir Thomas Blamey had long since been deciphered and delivered, leaving only the Dot’s message to her, a message shared amongst friends, to be kept and read over and over.  
_The Melbourne Boxers are winning, Ms. Fisher. You wouldn’t believe some of the new moves they have learned since last season. Their coach is formidable and the lessons tough, making them into the strongest fighters of the city. I trust you’ll enjoy your ringside seats for the upcoming season._  
The Melbourne Boxers refer to, of course, the complete set of mini Collins’s. The next generation. All four girls and three boys. Just the thought of Dot having had to bear the seven of them made Phryne cross her legs that much tighter. The underlying message was that the kids were all well. They were scrapping and doing Dot’s head in, but everyone was well. The coach, the father, is the illustrious Detective Inspector Hugh Collins, who is on sabbatical and currently doing a tour with the RAAF in the Pacific Theatre. Since he was “formidable” and had sent lessons home, it meant he was healthy and safe and had sent lots of letters home.  
_I’m sure you miss the dulcet tones from home. These sounds, always sweeter over the water, continue to ring clear and so loud that on a quiet night, you may hear them from where you are._  
It doesn’t matter that it is Dot, and not Phryne, that’s heard news of Jack. The important thing is that one of them has. The last thing she had heard was that he was on a destroyer that was scheduled to deliver supplies to Milne Bay. It was the sister ship, and not his, that had sunk. Not that she had proof which ship he was on. Not that she’d had word from him after that.  
She folded Dot’s letter, and tucked it deep in her luggage.  
The air was thick like wet cotton, like it is always. It hasn’t been any worse in the day than it has been at night. It’s just that at night, there was less going on, less to think about, less to talk about, so it was natural to focus on how difficult it was to breathe.  
The whiskey helps. So does the gin, especially when mixed with quinine-infused tonic. It helps to lessen one’s attention of the frequency in which the mosquito net ripples, which happens each time a moth flies into it. They will quit throwing themselves in her general direction as soon as the lamp at her bedside is extinguished.  
It was quiet tonight. That means it was a good night for the men. All one hundred and thirteen of them, each of them injured somewhere in the Pacific. This time, those under her care were well enough to have survived transport here. Since they were strong enough to do that, chances were good that even if they won’t be able to walk away from the war, they could survive it.  
This time around has been much different for her.  
This time, the blood washed off.  
This time, only one in twenty have died in her care.  
This time, they had access to penicillin and better anesthesia.  
She has never been fooled in thinking that any of this has made this a better war. God, no. She knew that it was only better for her because she got lucky. Because she found her way to New Guinea instead of the continent. On the continent, the war has never been more grim. Four years in and four times over has the death toll surpassed the total number of casualties from the Great War. It will only get worse.  
General Blamey entered her hut, knowing full well that she had likely climbed into bed, mere moments from shutting off her lantern. He was a persistent bugger. That said, what kind of general would he be if he were not?  
“General.” She greeted him warmly, though firmly, and without an ounce of promise.  
He gave her a sideways glance, and eyed her sheets with jealousy. “Have I disturbed you?” The light from her lamp made his large, white, walrus mustache flicker with gold and, though she suspected that his glance brightened just a little, she couldn’t see his actual response due to the overhang of his lids.  
“Not at all,” Phryne sang, and she reached to the chair next to her to grab her dressing gown in order to coax it over her shoulders, and to dissuade the general from pursuing his desired conversation any further.  
“The men appear to be in good spirits this evening. You did a marvelous job,” he praised, referring to her shift from head nurse to hostess, as she had arranged for music and stories and company for the men so far away from home who had thus far, only heard of the dire conditions elsewhere.  
She reckoned, “It certainly didn’t hurt any of them.”  
There had been words earlier. Not with the general. With his supporting staff. For one, these were not actions of a particularly moral woman (and why should they be?) For another, what if there was a surprise attack? After all, every man would be needed to defend them (included the bed-ridden and excluding the healthy females?).  
The general agreed, “No.” That was all he said.  
She didn’t say anything further, either.  
They watched each other; him to see if she would invite him further, her to strengthen her psychic bulwark. He spoke next, “Good night then, Ms. Fisher.”  
“Good night, general.”  
She waited until the straw door was back in place and still before she extinguished her lamp.  
Sleep came quickly.  
She dreamt of mantles and manacles, a brown felt hat that turned around the corner in the distance, warm cups of tea with witnesses and their families. Then came a kiss that masqueraded as a ridiculous cover, and strong arms that lifted her from a dark, drug-addled space, and a good-bye in a field a hundred feet from that stupid propeller plane. Then, finally, warmth and memories of nights nestled together, her back to his front and vice versa, his hand around hers, her hand grabbing his thumb, whispers, and growls, and soft secrets she’ll remember forever.  
But then they turned on her. There was a storm, and a battle, and an urgent need to get on the other boat. The messages got it wrong. They spoke only to her desires and not to the truth. Why, in war, will no one tell the truth?  
She didn’t notice how she thrashed.  
Nor did she notice the shifting of the straw against the dirt below it.  
Or the silent, steady footfalls, one after another, followed by a displacement of the mosquito net.  
But all of a sudden, she knew there was someone there.  
Her hand crawled down her leg. She pulled the blade from the sheath that was strapped to her calf. Whoever was there either knew not to wake her or not to get too close as she slept. The moonlight would give her away if she opened her eyes. As it was, she couldn’t see either the man or his silhouette.  
She remained frozen, and mimicked her sleeping breath and kept her shoulders forcibly relaxed and reached for all of her senses to help her, the underdog and the undefeated, remain in tact through the morning and beyond.  
He spoke, “You are beautiful even when you pretend that you’re sleeping.” The voice was benevolent and beloved. Phryne’s eyes flew open at the sound, “Jack!”  
His chuckle rumbled from the chair to her ear, and she found herself propped on a single arm. She breathed as if the air were as light and clear as a spring day in Melbourne, and she held her arm out for him so that when he took it, she could reel him in. He needed to be next to her. He belonged there.  
Jack shrugged off the top layer of his clothing and toed off his shoes. Then he slipped into her cot and tangled himself around her as if he were trying to form a knot that could never be undone.  
“How long do I have you for, Jack?”  
“Forever, didn’t you know?”  
Her breath whooshed out in a semblance of a laugh. “You know what I mean.”  
“Do I?”  
“Are you going to use our time together feigning ignorance?”  
“Why not?” He said, “It’s what I do.”  
It allowed her to think, as she sometimes does, of how they might pass the rest of the war together. Like this. With his forehead gently rested on hers and with the pads of her fingertips brushing along his days old stubble. With their scents merged and their breath joined and their intent to remain in this exact spot cemented.  
If she were a witch, she’d have already made a curse.  
If she were an angel, she’d have already made a blessing.  
As it stood, she was neither. A soldier more than a nurse, and a woman more than a soldier, and come hell or fire or brimstone or high water, she had long ago made her choice. Heaven wouldn’t be of any use to the next person attempting to separate them again.


End file.
